Chapter 29 #2
A reporter near the front tries to soften the moment.
"Of course. Respecting privacy makes sense.
" Respecting privacy. The phrase twists.
Because Arabella never asked me to make us public property.
She asked not to feel hidden. And I was still standing here, weeks later, using the same language that made hiding sound noble.
"I respect her privacy," I say slowly, and my voice sounds rougher now. "But I don't want to make it sound like she was just… part of the noise."
Pens pause. Eyes lift. Cameras hold steady. The shift is subtle. Still there. My pulse kicks harder. Control starts slipping. For once, I let it.
"She wasn't," I say. Two words. Not enough. Still more honest than anything I said first.
The silence afterward is sharper than any question. Nobody looks away for half a second. A woman near the front glances down briefly at her notes before looking back up at me.
"Are you and Arabella still together?" The question lands softly. No edge. No attempt to corner me. That somehow makes the question land harder. Because she asks it like it matters emotionally instead of professionally.
I draw a slow breath through my nose. Every instinct pushes toward the familiar answer, private, complicated, focused on careers, respecting boundaries, the same language, the same emotional narrowing. I suddenly hate all of it.
"No," I say finally. The word feels heavier out loud than it should.
The reporter nods once, almost sympathetically. "Did you watch Worlds?" "Yeah," I say quietly. The honesty slips out before I fully decide on it. A camera clicks somewhere near the back of the room. The reporter's expression softens slightly.
"Were you proud that she won?"
The question hits directly. I look briefly toward the floor before I can stop myself.
And suddenly I'm back in the hotel lounge watching Arabella smile in disbelief beneath arena lights while my entire body reacted like something inside me was still built around her happiness automatically. My throat feels tight.
"Of course I was proud," I say before caution catches up.
"She worked for that her entire life." Too fast. Too emotional.
I hear it. Across the room, one of the PR staff subtly shifts posture.
Warning. Meanwhile a few teammates lingering near the doorway have gone completely still.
Watching. Because apparently nobody in this building has ever heard me sound like this publicly before.
The reporter doesn't push harder. That's the worst part. She just asks gently: "Was it difficult watching from a distance?"
The room feels suddenly too warm. I could still pull this back. One polished answer and the moment closes again. Professional. Distant. Survivable. Instead I sit there with cameras pointed at me and Arabella's name still living visibly in the room no matter how hard I try to regulate it.
I lean back slightly in the chair, exhausted all at once. "Yes," I admit quietly.
Nobody rushes to fill the silence afterward. Not aggressively. Almost respectfully.
A reporter near the centre raises his hand slightly. "Do you think watching her succeed changed anything for you?" The question should irritate me. Instead exhaustion settles heavily. Because I know what he's actually asking: did losing her feel worth it afterward.
"She deserves everything happening for her right now," I say carefully. Still too careful. The words sound polished enough that I almost hear the old version of myself again. The one constantly sanding emotional edges down until nothing honest remained visible. I drag a hand briefly across my jaw.
"She's…" I stop. Reset. The PR staffer near the wall visibly straightens. I should move on. Instead my brain betrays me completely.
"She's one of the hardest working people I've ever met.
" The sentence leaves my mouth rougher than intended.
Real. A reporter's eyebrows lift slightly.
Another camera clicks. I barely notice. Because suddenly every memory arrives at once, Arabella limping through six a.m. practices, training through bruises, redoing programs until exhaustion physically shook through her body, and still stepping onto the ice like grace was effortless somehow.
"She pushes herself too hard," I say before thinking.
"Even when nobody's asking her to." I hear it.
The intimacy inside the observation. Not surface-level admiration.
Knowledge. The kind built slowly over months of loving someone close enough to learn where they break. Even the camera shutters stop clicking.
My chest tightens.
A reporter near the front speaks carefully. "You still sound very connected to her." I open my mouth automatically searching for something restrained enough to pull the interview back into familiar territory. Instead what comes out is: "I don't know how not to be."
Complete silence. The second the words leave my mouth, microphones suddenly feel louder.
Not dramatic. Worse. Human. Because suddenly nobody's looking at this like celebrity gossip anymore.
They're looking at me like a man who clearly lost something important and accidentally let the grief show on live microphones.
My pulse pounds hard enough that I can hear it now.
I should correct it. Walk it back. Rebuild the distance again.
Instead I just sit there breathing too carefully while I think about how she takes her coffee before competitions.
The difference between her frustrated silence and her overwhelmed silence.
The exact way her face looked the moment she realized she qualified for Worlds.
The reporter quietly thanks me and shifts toward another hockey question. The interview moves on. Grief became visible tonight. Not just privately survivable.
The interview ends a few minutes later. I barely remember the last hockey questions, something about defensive pressure, playoff momentum, recovery schedules.
I answer automatically while my pulse still pounds unevenly beneath my ribs from hearing myself say: I don't know how not to be. The sentence keeps replaying.
By the time the media staff finally thank everyone and start disconnecting equipment, exhaustion sits so heavily it feels physical.
I stand slowly from the stool. Movement returns around me, reporters packing bags, camera operators lowering equipment, PR staff already moving toward the next player.
Normal. Everything outwardly returning to routine.
Except I can still feel the shape of the interview lodged somewhere under my sternum like damage.
One of the PR guys catches up beside me as I leave the room. "You handled that well." The compliment nearly makes me laugh. Because if this had happened three months ago, he would have been right. Controlled. Measured. Untouchable. Now all I can hear is every moment I almost erased her again.
I walk down the concrete hallway toward the locker room and the language keeps replaying.
Private. Focused on hockey. Respecting boundaries.
Because Arabella never asked me to announce our relationship to the world.
Never asked for spectacle. Never asked me to become someone public and reckless and emotionally exposed for strangers.
She asked for something terrifyingly simple: not to feel hidden.
I stop walking.
Private. Focused on hockey. Respecting boundaries.
Not lies exactly. Something worse.
The locker room is mostly empty by the time I get back.
A few guys still changing. Music low now.
Energy fading after the win. Maddox looks up briefly when I walk in.
Our eyes meet for half a second. Something in my expression must say enough because he doesn't joke.
Doesn't push. He waits until the last guy pulls his bag off the bench and heads out. Then, quietly:
"Her number hasn't changed."
He goes back to his phone before I can answer. Like he said something obvious.
I sit heavily in front of my locker and stare at my phone resting beside my equipment bag. Dark screen. Silent. The urge to text Arabella hits so hard it physically aches. Not because I want comfort. Because I want to tell her she was right. About all of it.
I lean forward bracing my forearms against my knees while exhaustion drags through every muscle in my body. For months I thought the most dangerous thing would be publicly loving her too much. The dangerous thing was pretending she mattered less than she did.
My throat tightens. It wasn't the cameras. Or the questions. Or the grief becoming visible. It was hearing myself almost erase her again and realizing I would rather lose control completely than ever do that to her twice.